


how to comfort a drowning man

by ladyfairhair



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst, Domestic Violence, Experimental Format, F/M, George Mackay - Freeform, Headcanon, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Prose Poem, but only within the context of a nightmare, instructions, physical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23633113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfairhair/pseuds/ladyfairhair
Summary: When you wake in the middle of the night with your husband’s hands around your throat, don’t panic.Or: William Schofield's wife grapples with her husband's PTSD.
Relationships: William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	how to comfort a drowning man

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it's so short! (Like, the shortest thing I've ever written. Practically a prose poem.) My draft was six pages long, and this is what I ended up whittling it down to. I'm hoping to write more for the Schofields soon!

When you wake in the middle of the night with your husband’s hands around your throat, don’t panic.

Don’t slap him, and don’t knee him in the groin—these options make him think his enemy is fighting back. Instead, straighten your arms and _push up on his shoulders_. Your father, a firm believer in your rights as a wife, taught you this before you were married. _Lock your arms,_ he’d said, _and he won’t be able to hold you down_. Laughing, you told him you’d never use it—Will Schofield wouldn’t hurt a fly.

When you can breathe, _say his name._ (Firmly, but quietly, so your daughters don’t hear you.) Say, “William Andrew Schofield,” once, twice, three times, until his blue eyes open. It’ll be the same shocked expression as last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. With any luck, his hands won’t be on your throat anymore. If they are, he’ll start to cry.

 _Hold him._ Hold him like your sister held you when your mother drowned. Rock him like you rocked Eleanor, like you rocked Frances. Your singing is awful—one of the many things you and he have in common. Sing anyway, if you can. Think about how Eleanor’s blue eyes remind you of him and brought you comfort when he was gone. (Do your best not to feel guilty about the safety and proximity to your daughters you enjoyed while he was digging trenches.)

Run your hands through his hair. Try to do as your sister told you, and don’t imagine the kind of things he must’ve gone through to suffer like he does. Your angry mind will suggest that if only your husband would tell you about his trials, you wouldn’t have to wonder. _Ignore it._ This isn't about you.

At this point, he may look up at you. His deep-set blue eyes will be rimmed with pink. You’ll be able to see the guilt, and the shame, and the pain. Ignore the tears on your own face. Kiss him on the forehead and tell him the truth.

_The war is over, I’m here, I love you._


End file.
